


If You're Ready Like I'm Ready

by mardia



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: F/M, Family, Fluff, Future Fic, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 19:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9006103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: The day Beverley decides she’s going to be proposing to Peter is a very ordinary day, on the surface.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [templemarker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/templemarker/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, templemarker! I was so excited when I saw that someone requested Peter/Beverley for Yuletide this year, and I hope you enjoy this fic!
> 
> Major thanks to my beta A for the lightning-fast beta. Title comes from the Bruno Mars song "Marry You", because I am nothing if not obvious.

The day Beverley decides she’s going to be proposing to Peter is a very ordinary day, on the surface. 

Beverley wakes up early that morning to an empty bed, the pillow next to her own cool enough that she knows Peter’s been up for a while. Beverley can hear Peter over in the kitchen, and smell eggs cooking on the stove--Peter had mentioned knocking together omelets for breakfast last night. "Contents of your fridge permitting, of course," he'd added, teasing, and even Bev knocking her elbow into his side hadn't wiped the grin off his face.

And now Beverley yawns, stretching out her limbs before reluctantly tugging off the sheets and dragging herself out of bed. At least today is a Saturday, and between Bev's lack of classes and the Folly's lack of any active cases, both she and Peter can enjoy a quiet, lazy morning at home.

As Beverley comes into the kitchen, moving quietly on her bare feet, she sees Peter hovering at the stove, his back to her as he fiddles with the spatula. 

He's wearing nothing but his boxers and the Doctor Who tank top she'd gotten for him last year as part of his Christmas gift, the one that reads 'Martha Jones Saved The World' on the front. (She'd had to get it specially made, but that was all right, as she could also order it in a size small enough that it would cling to Peter's body like a second skin.)

He looks good like this, but Beverley always thinks that. She still finds herself pausing in the doorway to look at him, though--admiring his long legs, that slim waist and those broad shoulders, filled out through years of boxing practice with Nightingale. Beverley's looking at him now as if she's seeing him for the first time, and she can't properly explain _why_ she's doing this, why the sight of Peter here in her kitchen, working at her stove, should send a rush of anticipation through her, but it does, and here she is.

"Morning," Peter says to her over his shoulder, because of course he knows she's there. "Omelets should be finished soon."

Perfectly ordinary words, for this perfectly ordinary Saturday morning, and there is no reason for Beverley's heart to beat a little faster at the sound of his voice. 

"It smells great," Beverley says, willing herself to sound normal. She walks up to him, right up to his side so she can wrap an arm around his waist. On an impulse--the same impulse that had her staring at Peter's back just now--Beverley lets herself lean in against him, her head resting against his bare shoulder. 

"Knew my cooking was the reason you kept me around,” Peter jokes. If he's noticed Bev's strange mood, he gives no sign other than momentarily putting his free arm around Beverley's waist, giving her hip a squeeze. 

Beverley looks at him then, stares at his profile, and thinks two things in order. 

One, she loves him. Two, she's going to ask Peter to marry her, before the month is out. 

The first part is obviously not news. But the second part, seeing her future appear in front of her as though it's been laid out on a map, knowing that she'll soon be asking Peter to marry her, that she'll buy a ring and ask his permission to put it on his finger, and to hell with anyone who thinks she shouldn't, that she doesn't have the right or that she's a fool to want to do this in the first place. 

For one brief, crazy moment, the words are hovering on the tip of her tongue-- _I love you. Let's get married_. She holds back, and the brief urge to blurt it out loud passes, but the knowledge that she will do this doesn't fade, doesn't waver in the slightest. 

"Bev?" Peter asks, cutting into her train of thought. "You all right?"

Bev pulls herself out of it, quickly giving Peter a smile. "Yeah, babes. I'm great."

If she's going to do this, Bev doesn't want it to be blurted out when she's wearing nothing but her rattiest tank top and a mismatched pair of underwear. If Beverley Brook is going to be the first river goddess to propose to a wizard from the Folly, then dammit, she's going to do it _properly_.

*

"All right, what's with you," Effra says, giving Bev a pointed look.

Bev comes back to herself--it's the second time she's found herself distracted from the conversation at the dinner table, and clearly Effra's had enough of it. "Nothing," she tries, but Effra just keeps looking at her, and even Oberon's got his eyebrows raised at them now. "Just thinking about something, that's all."

"Well, obviously," Effra snorts. "Would you like to share with the table?"

It would be nice, Beverley thinks, if she had just one sibling who didn't think of the phrase "It's none of my business" as a thing that applied to other people only. 

But--if Beverley is going to tell someone at this stage, she could do far worse than Effra and Oberon. Effra will flip, but she can actually keep it quiet from the rest of the family, at least until Beverley's ready to share it with everyone. And Oberon's a locked box so far as secrets or gossip are concerned--he'd known about Fleet and Alice ages before everyone else did, back in the day, and hadn't breathed a word to anyone, even Effra, until Fleet was ready to tell them.

Plus, there's a tiny, tiny bit of Beverley that is really looking forward to seeing the shock on Effra's face when she makes her announcement. 

So Beverley sits back in her chair, and admits, matter-of-factly, "I'm thinking about the best way to propose to Peter."

Effra's reaction is everything Beverley expected and more--a moment of stunned silence, then Effra choking out, 'Wait, wait, hold on just one bloody second. You're thinking of _proposing_ to Peter?”

"I'm not _thinking_ of doing it," Beverley corrects her. "I've already decided that I'm doing it, I'm just trying to work out _how_ to do it."

While Effra splutters, Oberon's watching them both with a look of quiet amusement on his handsome face. At last he leans into Effra and points out, "Is this really such a surprise?"

"Of course it is!" Effra retorts to him. "We all thought we had at least another three to five years before marriage came up for these two, if it ever did--Chelsea and Olympia have a bet going with Westbourne that you're just going to keep it unofficial, so no one can raise a fuss. Well, aside from Ty, of course--" Effra's eyes go wide as she realizes what she's just said, and she immediately asks, "Wait, how are you going to get past--"

"I'm not worried about Ty," Beverley cuts in, and Effra's eyebrows fly up nearly to her hairline. 

"You sure about that?" she asks, skeptically.

"If I was worried about Ty, you think I'd be doing this in the first place?" Beverley asks, and Effra acknowledges that with a nod. 

"Fair enough," she agrees. "Wait, why are you the one doing it? Shouldn't it be him going down on one knee?"

"That's sexist," Oberon says dryly, and Effra whips her head back around to stare at him, then bursts out laughing. 

"Well, consider me told then," she says, still laughing. "Fine, all right, you're a modern woman who waits for no man--or wizard, apparently. Now how are you going to do it?"

Effra asks this question eagerly, her face lit up from excitement, and for that second, Beverley lets her own excitement and nerves rise up to the surface. 

"I want to get him a ring, actually," Beverley admits. “Platinum. No gems, though, that's too flash for him.”

“Got anything in mind?” Effra asks, with a knowing look.

“I...might already have ordered the ring,” Bev admits. 

“How did you figure out his ring size?” Oberon asked, curious.

“Molly,” Beverley says. “I didn't ask how she managed it.”

“Are you going to ask Nightingale’s blessing?” Oberon asks her next.

“Or his mother’s,” Effra points out. 

"I'm not asking permission from anyone," Beverley insists, and at their raised eyebrows, amends, "Well, aside from Mum, obviously. And even that's more of a...notification of my intentions."

“What if the Nightingale doesn't approve?” Oberon asks her. Not meanly, but with a brotherly air of concern, like he wants to make sure she's thought this through.

“If Thomas Nightingale disapproved, I’d know about it by now,” Beverley points out, and it's nothing less than the truth. “Same with his mother.”

Effra looks at Beverley, and after a long moment, starts to smile. “You're getting _married_ , Bev.”

The thrill that goes through Beverley is undeniable, but still she tries to temper the smile on her own face. “He hasn't said yes yet.”

Oberon snorts quietly, and Effra gives her an unimpressed look. “Bev. You can call Peter Grant a lot of things, but none of them is stupid.”

*

Despite Beverley’s confident words to Effra and Oberon, she still feels a flutter of nerves the night that she goes over to Mrs. Grant’s flat for dinner. Peter was originally supposed to join her, but he’s out on a shout, so Bev makes the trip out to Kentish Town on her own in her Mini Cooper. 

She and Peter have made a habit of going round to Peter’s mum’s regularly since the death of Peter’s dad last year. Mrs. Grant’s doing better these days, but Peter still worries, and Beverley likes spending time with Peter’s mum--she likes Mrs. Grant’s bluntness, the way she’ll deliberately phrase things to wind Peter up, while obviously still adoring him. Also, it’s always nice hanging out with your boyfriend’s mum when she approves of you, which Mrs. Grant does.

Tonight it’s just her and Mrs. Grant, eating food while they watch an episode of Elementary on the Netflix account Peter set up for his mother. Mrs. Grant is a big Sherlock Holmes fan, which Beverley finds charming--but not nearly as charming as the fact that both she and Peter will go on incredibly detailed rants about Steven Moffat, but for entirely different reasons. 

Today they’re watching episodes while eating jellof rice, and Mrs. Grant says, “Pity Peter got called away, he likes this show.” 

“Yeah, he does,” Beverley agrees with a smile. Frankly, Beverley mostly thinks Peter likes seeing his mom so enthusiastic about a show--it’s nice for him to get confirmation he comes by his geeky tendencies honestly. 

“He’s a good son,” Mrs. Grant continues, contemplative. She looks over at Beverley and says, leadingly, “He’ll make a good husband too, someday.” She’s made even broader hints than this before, usually in front of Peter, and Beverley’s always smiled and let Peter take the lead, mostly so she can see how red his face will get. 

But now Peter’s not here, and Beverley’s picking up the ring in a few days. “I know he will,” Beverley agrees, and then takes a breath and plunges in. “I’m rather counting on it, in fact.”

The dawning smile on Mrs. Grant’s face is lovely to see, and not just because it’s so much like Peter’s. “Well,” she says, beaming, “It’s good to hear that.”

*

The ring is ready to be picked up by that Wednesday. Despite the shop being busy, no less than two assistants immediately leave customers to ask if there’s anything they can do for her, anything they can get her, “--water, a cappuccino, perhaps?” one of them chirps hopefully. 

“Just here to pick something up, thanks,” Beverley says, polite.

The ring itself is simple--a thick platinum band, with a thinner band of lapis lazuli inlaid in the center. (Beverley couldn’t resist adding a _little_ flash.) Beverley takes it out of the velvet box and looks at it, idly running the tip of her finger across the smooth surface. 

It’ll look good on Peter’s hand, she thinks. She can see Peter wearing it, see it glinting in the light as Peter gestures with his hand as he talks. It’ll be a symbol, and Beverley likes symbols--when they’re showing off the right things. 

“Is it what you were looking for?” one of the shop assistant asks her.

Beverley looks up, smiling. “Yeah,” she says. “It’s perfect.”

*

Of course, it’s not as simple as just getting the ring and giving it to Peter. There is in fact, someone else she needs to talk to first. 

Beverley’s mostly expecting the phone call she gets from Lea, asking her to stop by her mother’s house in Wapping the same day she picks up the ring. So Bev slips the velvet box into her pocket and goes over to her mother, to explain to her mother and to all her sisters that yes, Beverley really is going to ask a wizard from the Folly to marry her. 

Despite getting there early, Beverley is still the last to arrive. It’s not that the room goes quiet when she walks in, but everyone is _definitely_ looking at her. Beverley puts a smile on her face and goes over to her mother’s side. “Hello, Mama.”

“Beverley,” her mum says, a faint smile on her face, eyebrow raised just so. “I understand you’ve got some news to share.”

“Yeah,” Beverley agreed, sitting next to her mother on the couch. “I’ve decided to ask Peter to marry me.”

The room goes very quiet at that. One of the twins--Bev’s got her money on Chelsea--lets out a low whistle into the silence. 

“Hmm,” her mother says. “Are you sure about doing this?”

Beverley takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I am. I love him, and I want to keep him. And I believe he feels the same way about me. What else am I going to do, once I know that?”

For the space of a heartbeat, Beverley looks into her mother’s dark eyes, and waits, the room feeling very small and still as she waits to hear her mother’s response. 

And then her mother smiles, and Beverley feels it like the first glimpse of the sun after a rainstorm. “He’s a clever boy, with a bright future ahead of him,” she says, in approving tones. Then her smile turns a little wicked, and she adds with a cackle, “And won’t Baba Thames and his sons upriver stare when they hear my girl’s marrying a wizard from the Folly!”

There’s a sudden release within the room at large, and as if everyone’s gotten the cue--which of course they have--everyone comes forward to share their own opinions, demand details, or simply ogle the ring, which of course Beverley has to bring out and show everyone.

“I can’t believe you went shopping for the ring without any of us,” Olympia grumbles. 

“She picked out something decent, at least,” Fleet says. “Must’ve set you back.” That just sets off a round of people estimating how much Beverley paid for the ring, of course, and Beverley refuses to answer--but that’s only because she doesn’t want everyone to know she paid full price. She’s a river goddess, you just _don’t_ do that on a major purchase unless you have to--but it’s a ring for Peter, and Beverley had found herself weirdly liking the idea of telling him she’d paid full price for the ring she bought him.

The entire time Beverley’s there, she’s always aware in the back of her head where Tyburn is, how her sister’s holding herself back from the rest of the crowd, the excited chatter, even as she’s watching Beverley the whole time. 

Beverley puts it out of her mind as best as she can. Tyburn will have her opinions, and will share them no matter what Beverley does, so there’s no point in stressing out over it. 

And sure enough, once Beverley’s walking back to her car at the end of the evening, Tyburn follows, and calls out to Beverley’s back, “Do you really think you know what you’re doing?”

They’re alone on the street, with none of their sisters there to play referee, and Beverley makes herself count to five before she turns around to reply. 

It’d be easier, maybe, if Tyburn was just being a snobby twit about Peter--if she didn’t like him on a personal level, or didn’t respect him, Beverley could simply take comfort in the fact that her sister was a blind bat and move on. But this isn’t about Peter as a person, this is about Peter’s job, his oaths, and his mortality. All things that Beverley can’t change, and wouldn’t if she could.

But Beverley still takes that long pause before she turns around and starts this conversation. “It’d be nice if you could give me the benefit of the doubt on this one,” she says to Tyburn evenly. “Assume I’ve actually thought about this for more than five seconds.”

“Yes, you’re living a grand romance, I heard you in there,” Tyburn says. “But what I didn’t hear was you talking about the practicalities, what it’ll really be like once you’re married--”

“We’ve been dealing with the practicalities for years now,” Beverley points out. “I think I have a better idea of what I’m in for than you do.” She can hear the snap to her own voice now, and with an effort, reels it back in. “I love him, and I trust him, and I am walking into all of this with my eyes open, Ty. If you can’t believe anything else, believe that.”

There’s a long stretch of silence, where Tyburn just looks at her, her face unreadable. And then her mask cracks, softens, and she sighs a little. “You could do worse, I suppose,” Tyburn concedes at last. “And heavens knows he can’t do better.”

Beverley lets herself bend as well, enough to give her sister a small smile. “Don’t I know it,” she says, and miracle of miracles--Tyburn smiles back at her, just a little, just enough.

*

At long last, the day arrives. Beverley’s ordered food in--like hell is she going to attempt to cook when she’s this ramped up, that way just leads to kitchen fires--and a delivery had come from Molly, one of the best bottles of wine out of the Folly’s cellar. Per Molly’s instructions, she does not stick it in the refrigerator, and by the time Peter arrives, dinner’s been laid out on the table, the wine is breathing, and Beverley is wearing her favorite red wrap dress, the velvet box tucked into her dress pocket. 

Peter uses his key to get in, his face immediately breaking into a broad smile as he sees her. “You look really nice,” is all that he says, but the open appreciation on his face, that surprised delight--

Beverley looks at him, at his handsome face, both familiar and loved, and completely loses track of all her carefully-laid plans. The romantic, casual dinner, the thoughtful little speech she had planned--it all flies right out of her head, and all that’s left is the bone-deep knowledge that she loves Peter, and wants to ask him to marry her _right this second_.

“I have something to ask you,” Beverley says, her voice high and tight from nerves--actual nerves, who _is_ she right now--and before she can go completely mad, Beverley swallows and steps forward, taking the small velvet box out of her pocket to put right in Peter’s hand. 

Peter’s eyes dart from her, to the box, and then back to her. “Um. Bev? What--”

“Open it,” Beverley says, gripping her hands tightly in front of her. “And then...then you can tell me if it’s something you want to keep.”

Peter’s dark eyes are very wide as he stares at her, but then he slowly flips the box open, and for one long moment, all Beverley can hear is the rushing sound of her own heartbeat, too loud to be ignored.

And then Peter breathes out a shaky, “Oh my God. It’s a ring. Fuck me, it’s a ring.”

And in the next second he looks up, a disbelieving smile on his face, as he repeats in a tone of utter wonder, “You got me a _ring._ ”

Beverley’s heart is thundering so loudly in her ears that she thinks even Peter can hear it, and she presses him, “So is that a yes?”

Peter stares at her, then immediately goes in for a kiss, pressing his mouth to hers, a declaration on its own, even before he pulls back and murmurs, smiling against Beverley’s mouth, “Bev, of course it's a yes.”

When he pulls back, Bev’s vision is swimming, but she blinks back the sudden happy tears and asks, with a wet laugh, “So can I put it on?”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, and the smile on his face is the most beautiful thing. “Yeah, go on then.”

It takes just a moment to wriggle the ring free of its notch, and then Beverley takes Peter’s hand in hers, and carefully, slowly slips the ring on. It fits perfectly--Molly knows what she’s about--and the way it looks on Peter’s hand now is just...perfect.

Peter’s staring down at his own hand as well, and he finally says, his voice low and rough, “Not that I’m not excited to eat dinner, but--could we--”

“Bedroom,” Beverley agrees. “Now, please.”

Peter lets out a groan of relief and kisses her again, already moving to unbutton his shirt. “Thank _God_.”

*

They end up having to reheat dinner in the microwave, but the wine’s still good. They end up eating everything on the couch while watching an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on Bev’s Netflix account, Beverley wearing Peter’s shirt and very little else, and Peter stripped down to his boxers. Beverley’s tucked up against Peter’s side, and that means she’s got a front-row seat to the way Peter’s gaze keeps dropping to his left hand, the way he holds it out so as to get a better look at the ring. His ring. 

“Do I get to give you a ring now?” Peter asks abruptly, during a pause in the action where Buffy’s making quips at Giles in the library. “I mean, it only seems fair.”

Bev smiles, and promises him, “Yes, Peter, you can get me a ring.”

“Good,” Peter says, pleased. “I’ve been saving up, after all.”

Bev ducks her head, her smile getting even broader. Her face is going to start hurting at the rate she’s going, but she can’t wipe the smile off her own face. 

“So is this how it’s usually done, then?” Peter asks her next, contemplative. “With river goddesses, is this how it usually goes?”

Beverley pauses before answering. “Not exactly, no.”

Peter’s hand is tracing little circles on Beverley’s shoulder, and she feels the brief pause before he resumes the motion. “How does it go, then?”

The thing is, Beverley could put him off. She could change the subject, or say something like, _it doesn’t matter, we’re making our own traditions now_. Which has the benefit of being true, even. 

But Peter’s asking, and Beverley doesn’t want to hide this from him. Even if it means exposing an old ache. 

“I’d take you with me into my river,” Beverley says slowly, the long-held fantasy rising up in her mind. “I’d take you down with me beneath the surface, and by the time you came back up again, you’d be mine. We’d...we’d be like Oxley and Isis.” Beverley bites her lip against saying the rest of it aloud, saying, _And you’d be safe, you’d be immortal, I’d never have to watch you grow old._

It’s not possible, Beverley knows that. Peter is who he is, he’s taken oaths that Beverley won’t ask him to break. And honestly, Beverley has no idea what the future will hold, but she knows she wants to have Peter with her for it. 

“I’d do it if I could,” Peter tells her softly, pressing his face into her hair. “If I could go in with you, I would, I promise.”

“I know,” Beverley says, because she does know that, and it helps. “But this--you wearing my ring, agreeing to be mine--this is good too. It really is.”

She can feel the exact moment when Peter decides to lighten the tone, stepping away from the topic of immortality and rivers and a future they can’t predict. “Oh, so I’m yours now, am I?”

“Obviously,” Beverley says, twisting around to look at him, right into his smiling face. “That’s how this works.”

Peter’s smile grows only wider, as he glances once more to his ring, the ring that he’ll wear before the whole world, before looking back at her. “Yeah,” he says, his face open and full of a joy that Beverley caused, that she put there. “I guess that it is.”


End file.
